


You Who Holds Me Under

by jacksonwng



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksonwng/pseuds/jacksonwng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a murder investigation, Kent and Chandler pose as a couple to gather information which leads Chandler to some unexpected realisations about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Who Holds Me Under

**Author's Note:**

> This was written based off a prompt on the Whitechapel kink meme.
> 
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> I wrote this fic for my NaNoWriMo 2013 series.

 

Six bodies.

Three couples.

Two different methods of killing: asphyxiation and stabbing.

One killer.

No new leads.

Chandler pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out heavily, a noise that could only belong to a man on the end of his tether. He’d been standing in front of the whiteboard for what felt like hours, examining and reexamining the photographs, the connections between victims, anything and everything they’d been able to find in the past two weeks. It wasn’t much in the way of actually helping to find the person responsible.

Other than the fact they were in couples, and the victims shared the common trait of blond and brown hair, there didn’t seem to be any connection between the six people. Andrew Morrison and Bianca Fitz had been dating for six years, heterosexual, English and German-African descent respectfully. Eric Lancaster and Rian Torrez, homosexual, Eric born and raised in Scotland whilst Rian was originally from Spain but had moved to the United Kingdom when he was eighteen for university and had made his home in London. William and Samantha Dagmar, married for seven months, heterosexual, both families originated from Finland and immigrated as children.

Bianca, Eric and Samantha had been strangled, overpowered, with what was most likely a belt, according to Dr. Llewllyn. Andrew, Rian and William were stabbed repeatedly, one in the side, twice in the stomach and once in the heart, killing them.

This murderer had crossed ethnic groups, socioeconomic backgrounds, sexualities, genders, methodologies. The bodies were dumped all over Whitechapel, and, except for the location they were last said to have been, nothing about these people overlapped.

 _Then it has to be the location_ , Chandler theorized. What else could it be?

“Riley,” he called, eyes zeroing in on the red circle on the map that marked the last place, “Did we find out what was around the last known location of the victims?”

Riley looked away from the computer screen for a moment before ducking her head towards her notes, “Um, yes, there’s a chippy, a shoemakers and an old pub that has complaints for loud music. Locals said that some company brought it out a few months back - Jason Reynolds, he’s the owner of a chain of nightclubs around London - and there’s been a few complaints about the noise, up until four weeks ago when soundproofing was installed as a kind of compromise.”

“A nightclub...” Chandler murmured, “Doesn’t that seem like the perfect place for a serial killer to pick and stalk his targets?”

“It’s as good a place as any,” Miles commented, taking a few steps to stand at Chandler’s side, “Lots of loud music, smoke, other people to hide behind it.”

“But why would the Dagmar’s be at some dive nightclub in the middle of the rat arse end of Whitechapel?” Mansell questioned, causing the DI and Sergeant to turn towards him. His feet were up on his desk and he was fiddling with a pen. “They weren’t exactly the type to need to take advantage of four shots for five quid and ladies get in free nights.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Chandler argued, “There’s nothing else in that area that would attract anyone from outside. It’s got to be the night club.”

“Think Reynolds would talk to us?” Miles asked.

Riley frowned slightly. “It’s unlikely. He didn’t take too kindly to the police turning up at his business about the noise complaints, only did what he was asked to do to stop the old bill from knocking again. I can’t imagine he’d be too happy about us turning up again.”

“So we have to find another way of getting information,” Chandler stated.

“We could show up there? Act as if we’re clubbers, get information from the guests? If there are regulars, it’s likely they would have seen our victims before,” Kent theorized.

Mansell snorted. “Do you really think skip will blend into a club scene?”

“Oi,” Miles grumbled and Mansell held up his hand in surrender, although the amused grin on his face didn’t let up.

“He’s got a point though,” Riley reluctantly agreed.

“I could go,” Kent volunteered, sitting up a little straighter at his desk, hand raised in a school yard gesture. Eyes turned to him. “I’m in the age range, I wouldn’t stand out.”

“No,” Chandler denied automatically, “It’s out of the question. What if the murderer is there that night and sees you?”

“But he only targets couples,” Kent reminded, “I’d be fine.”

“Lancaster and Torrez are never mentioned together until three nights before their bodies were found, and that’s from a picture on Torrez’ facebook account. What if the killer just pairs you with someone you happen to speak to?” he argued, “And they wouldn’t know how to protect themselves or you. I’d feel better if someone more experience was with you.”

“Then why don’t you go?” Miles nudged him, a wicked grin on his face like he knew exactly what he was doing and that was a little terrifying.

Chandler blinked, startled by the sudden suggestion. “W-what?”

“Miles is right, you’d probably be the only other one of us that could blend in well enough,” Riley concurred with the Sergeant, “You and Kent pose as a couple, gather your information, and if anything happens, you’ll be there to make sure this bastard’s body count doesn’t go up to eight.”

“I-I...” Chandler stammered uncertainly. He glanced at Kent out of the corner of his eye, the DC being unusually quiet during this situation. His head was ducked a little, his face shielded, and he was absentmindedly rolling a ball of glue tack on the surface of his desk. But he was listening, Chandler could see that in the arch of his shoulders, the tension. He wasn’t sure what it was about seeing him like that, which made Chandler gather himself. To straighten his back and fold his arms across his chest. “It seems like a perfectly reasonable idea. Kent, we should get started on his as soon as possible.”

Kent looked up at him and smiled, a mixture of uncertainty and excitement - was that excitement, Chandler wasn’t sure - in the curve of his lips. “Of course sir.”

Chandler smiled back and nodded briefly before glancing back towards the board, at the bodies, at the people that hadn’t been saved and needed to be avenged. That was why he was doing this, the _only_ reason why, he told himself and tried to ignore a small part of him that rebelled against the idea.

 

*

 

Torrent was loud, smoky, cramped and overcrowded with people, all dancing against each other, shouting, laughing, drinking.  Chandler supposed it was like any other nightclub in London, with the same kind of people that always frequented these establishment. Not that he would know, not from first hand experience anyway. He wasn’t exactly the nightclub type, not even when he was a teenager or at university. They never really appealed to him, for the exact reasons why they appealed to everyone else he guessed, although he assumed his issues with cleanliness also played a part. Torrent didn’t seem like the most sanitary of places, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from flinching away from the contact whenever someone’s bare arm, sweaty and glitter covered, brushed against his shirt.

He tried not to look uncomfortable, or to give away his true purpose there, but he just felt so out of place and like he shouldn’t be there. Kent though, he seemed to fit right in. The clothes of the party goers, the tight jeans and the band shirt making it easier for him to blend in than Chandler in his slightly loose jeans and plaid shirt that Riley had forced him into - “you have to look like you’re supposed to be there, sir, not like a dad there to watch his teenage daughter,” she had told him when he complained about the choice of attire - and he was relaxed and comfortable as he was.

When they had entered and seen the number of people, the silhouettes in the grey clouds, Kent and Chandler had shared a look as if uncertain of where to begin, and then Kent had offered to go get them some drinks, to try and make them look less conspicuous. From where Chandler was standing, he could see Kent conversing with two women on his right, smiling widely as he leant in close to hear what they were saying over the thumping of the music.

Chandler couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight. Since he had known Kent, he knew that the man took his job seriously and when it came to gathering information from the less than willing, he gained their trust. Perhaps it was something about his face that made it so, Chandler couldn’t be sure, he just knew that Kent was aware of this strange ability that he seemed to possess and used it whenever he could to get the job done. He was rather dedicated to it.

Kent turned and gestured towards him through the crowd, making the two women glance towards him, small smirks on their faces. Chandler smiled and waved politely, until he realised he was being gestured over, and startled began to push his way through the crowd to join the trio.

“Joe, this is Abigail and Whitney,” Kent shouted over the music to introduce. His arm slung easily around Chandler’s waist, in a manner so comfortable, as if it were something he did all the time, that it genuinely made Chandler jerk, but he pushed down the violent movement just in time. Kent grinned up at him and Chandler strained a smile down, “This is my Joe.”

“Oh, he’s cute,” one - Whitney, Chandler thought - cooed at him, resting her chin on the palm of her hand, her arm resting on the table, and eyed him up and down, bringing a flush to the DI’s face.

“But he looks a little out of his comfort zone here, pet,” Abigail commented, her Newcastle accent thick and strong, no mistakes about it.

“Clubs aren’t really his thing,” Kent explained, “But he did it for me. We’ve been looking for some friends of mine, they’re supposed to be meeting us here. Apparently this is a regular place for them.”

“Regular, huh?” Abigail arched an eyebrow, “We know all the regs.”

“So you might be able to help us then?” Chandler questioned, a small hopeful smile coming to his face at the thought that this wouldn’t be a completely useless line of enquiry.

She grinned at him. “I don’t see why not pet. Gives us the names and we can see if we can help.”

“Dagmar, Will and Sam Dagmar,” Kent told them.

Whitney grinned. “Yeah, we know ‘em. Couple of oldies that like a good time. Usually in the backroom,” she frowned, “Haven’t seen in a while though.”

“The backroom?” Chandler quoted urgently, “What’s that?”

“It’s like private rooms, ya know, for those who can afford it,” she explained with a small shrug, “PDA ain’t allowed on the dance floor, but if you can afford to get back there, from what I’ve heard, there ain’t nothing stopping ya, if you know what I mean.” she winked playfully.

“And two like that, they’d definitely want to get back there,” Abigail teased, “Kinky as hell, always looking for a good time and a third.”

“A-a third?” Chandler questioned, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“A threesome hun,” Whitney clarified, and Chandler turned red.

“So when did you last see them?” Kent quickly diverted.

“Uh, a few days I guess. They grabbed some fresher from the floor and went down back,” Abigail shrugged.

“Do you know who this fresher is? Maybe they can help?”

“He was just a fresher, but I’ve seen him a few times recently. He’s cute, so he keeps getting lucky, if you know what I mean,” her eyebrows waggled suggestively, and Kent laughed boisterously whilst Chandler strained a smile.

“So how much does it cost to get into the backroom?” Kent wondered.

“Why pet, you interested?” Whitney grinned wickedly.

Chandler flushed and stammered embarrassed by the insinuation and how casually it was thrown about, but Kent just smiled widely and stated, “You’ve got to try everything once, right?”

 

*

 

Kent glanced up at him uncertainly. “Are you ready for this sir?” he questioned.

Chandler’s eyes darted between the narrow corridor and his DC and then back again. He wanted to say ‘of course I am, don’t be ridiculous’ but they would both know it was a lie. He wasn’t an undercover agent, he never had been, and he found it hard to act when he knew something would bother him, and Chandler was hundred percent sure that whatever laid beyond the hallway, would bother him. Kent’s hand was still a steady and, perhaps mostly unusually, comfortable presence around his own. When they’d walked away from Abigail and Whitney, Kent had kept up the couple pretence by grasping his hand and tugging him through the crowd, but he hadn’t felt the need to let go and Chandler honestly hadn’t felt the need to ask him to.

“I’ll be fine,” he finally answered, realising that he’d been silent for far too long and Kent’s worried look had increased. It lessened a little at the words.

“You do know what we’ll find in there, right?” he wondered, and turned a little pink, “And what we’ll be expected to do?”

“Kent, I think for the sake of stopping another set of bodies from turning up, we can be...intimate,” Chandler chose his words carefully, trying to ignore the flush of heat that warmed the back of his neck. It was understandable, he theorized, it had been a long time since he’d let anyone get that close, for work or otherwise, and now it was likely to happen with eyes firmly placed in his direction. Of course he would feel embarrassed. It had nothing to do with the curly haired man beside him that he would be expected to ki-be intimate with, and he was absolutely not fond of the idea. Why would he be? As if the idea of...being with Kent was favourable, regardless of the circumstances. Kent was...Kent, attractive yes, and sociable and hardworking and was no doubt a catch for any man or woman who caught his eye, but that didn’t mean that man was him.

Chandler felt as if he was trying to tell himself something but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Boss?” Kent’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Joe,” he corrected automatically, without much thought behind the instruction.

Kent blinked surprised.

“If we are to be in a couple, it only seems fitting,” Chandler excused himself quickly, and Kent smiled widely, too brightly, too everything.

“We should go in...Joe,” he told him, his voice a little shy.

Chandler nodded shiftly and straightened his collar, as if he were still wearing a suit at work and the straightness of the fabric would depend whether or not he made a good impression. “Let’s go,” he ordered and took the lead, their linked hands pulling Kent behind him.

 

*

 

Chandler could never honestly say that he liked kissing. It was level of intimacy that he had reached on several occasions in life, before he had realised that perhaps it was simpler to just be alone than to find someone who could accommodate to his habits, and yes, he could see the appeal, the feelings behind it, the closeness and the connection and the expectation behind the touch. He could understand that. But on a deep and personal level, it had always been seemed in its basic form - the spreading of germs through saliva and although he had gotten used to suppressing the urge to jerk away, it had never really disappeared entirely.

He tried his hardest, when he took the lead and pressed his lips to Kent’s, not to focus on the statistics about germs and diseases, tried not to recoil away and ruin the image of a happy couple that they had portrayed. Instead, he focused on the warm body beside him on the loveseat, the heaviness of it pressed against his side. He thought of the cotton fabric of Kent’s shirt under his fingertips when he placed his hands on his waist, his grip tightening around it as he slipped, further and further. He thought about the taste of beer, bitter, on Kent’s breath, and how it washed shakily over his own lips, heating the skin in a surprising pleasant way. It was almost...enjoyable, could he say, when he thought about it like that.

But they had work to do, he remembered quickly, and pulled away slowly. Kent looked a little flushed, dazed perhaps if one looked too closely and Chandler couldn’t stop himself from doing so. Kent traced his bottom lip with his tongue and looked up at Chandler from under his eyelashes.

“Um, d-do you see anyone?” he murmured unsteadily.

Chandler’s eyes flickered up and around the room and back again. “A few eyes. None that explicitly stand out.”

“Should we, ah, do it again then?” Kent wondered.

“I suppose so,” Chandler agreed, a second before the younger officer reared up and claimed a kiss once more.

Chandler couldn’t help but be startled by the eagerness behind the touch, the way that Kent’s hands moved from gripping the front of his shirt and moved to the back of his neck, a warm touch against the skin, the way that he half climbed onto Chandler’s lap to get to him.

 _This must be for the realism_ , one part of him reasoned.

 _If you think that, you’re delusional_ , another one responded, _he wants you almost as much as you want him._

_I don’t want him._

_Keep telling yourself that DI Chandler._

It was funny how his inner voice was beginning to sound a lot like Miles.

Kent pulled away after a moment, his breathing heavy and his face too close. His eyes were dark and Chandler was very much away that he was putting some bodily distance between them, the gap allowing a flood of cold air between them.

“Think that did the trick?” he smiled, his words veiled with something that Chandler wasn’t certain that he could read.

“I would say,” he muttered back almost involuntarily.

Kent blushed at the suggestion behind the words and grinned back a little more confidently. Chandler’s hands tightened around Kent’s waist and he gently urged the man to pushed down on him. Kent went a little wide eyed and uncertain, but did as he was ordered, lowering himself between Chandler’s legs.

Chandler tilted his head towards Kent’s neck, his lips barely a brush against the flesh and he felt the full blown shiver that went through the DC’s body. Over Kent’s shoulder, Chandler watched the room. He scanned the people, some in couples, trios, groups, others standing alone, just watching. When his eyes swept scenes that seemed far too intimate for public consumption, he skidded past them quickly, with just a brief glimpse that their pleasure marred faces. It seemed likely that the killer was already part of a group, having already chosen his next victim, but these faces, they seemed too distracted, too wrapped in what was happening. From what they knew about the person responsible, this man wouldn’t enjoy the warm up gig more than the opening act. So he was standing alone, just watching, deciding.

Only five people standing, two women and three men. The women were close together and chattering, eying each display before them with interest. Chandler didn’t spend too much time focused on them. It was statistically unlikely that this killer was female due to the brutality of the kills, and the strength it would take for one person to be able to subdue two victims, some of which were pretty hefty men. And the two women had said the Dagmar’s were last seen with a man, much like Lancaster and Torrez, and Morrison and Fitz. Two striked out.

Kent’s lips pressed firmly against Chandler’s adams apple, making him gulp in response and his breathing pick up just that little bit more. It was a wet kiss, the sound seeming to echo even in the crowded, busy room. His mind flickered to the idea of spit on his skin, which goosebumped automatically, before Kent hummed, the noise vibrating against his skin and he gasped. It was an expected reaction, he argued. He was sensitive there, an exogenous zone, and he couldn’t control that. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was Kent who had brought the shiver through him, who had made his thoughts jump and muddle in a mess at the front of his brain. Absolutely nothing.

Chandler focused again. Three men, three men, he repeated. Each standing alone, their eyes dancing around the room, a mixture of interest and desire in their eyes. One was beckoned forward by an outstretched hand which was taken eagerly and he disappeared into the fold.

A wet stripe was painted across his neck and he froze, physically and mentally. He glanced down startled, and Kent grinned up at him just a bit too innocently for it to be trusted. His hips rolled down, and his hands slide up and around the back of Chandler’s neck. He veered up and whispered in his ear, “Anything?”

“Narrowed down to two,” he muttered back, trying and failing to keep his voice from trembling quite so hard.

“Got a favourite boss?” Kent questioned.

“Not as of yet, but we should probably try and get their names, get them checked out,” Chandler stated almost absentmindedly.

Kent pulled back a little. “Sir, that would mean...inviting them in, wouldn’t it?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to him. He guessed he had forgotten he wasn’t supposed to be a police officer here. He could hardly approach the two figures and ask for their names, not without asking them to join or giving away who they really were. He had to be honest, the idea of anyone touching Kent kind of irritated him. Because Kent was his partner right now, he was on his team, of course he’s being protective. It had nothing to do with the fact that he wanted to kiss him again.

Oh god, he wanted to kiss Kent again.

Chandler was sure that his mind was going to spin into a panic at the revelation, it felt like that was what was going to happen. But a voice, unfamiliar, a little nasally perhaps, broke through the ramble. Kent and Chandler turned at the same time, and eyed the man beside him. He was about Chandler’s age, dark hair and dark eyes, with a polite smile.

“Your drinks sirs,” he stated and presented them towards them.

“We didn’t order any drinks,” Kent stated with an almost dismissive smile.

“These drinks are for you both sir,” the man said again, “On the house.”

“We don’t want them, thank you,” Chandler forced a smile.

“You must take them,” he insisted, “They’re for you.”

“Well, let someone else have them,” Chandler suggested.

“No, only you!” the man snapped and stopped sharply, eyes wide and chest heaving. He looked...shocked by his own actions. Chandler’s eyes narrowed and glanced between the champagne, the bubbles that floated to the top and popped as it reached the surface, and the man’s face, who was still staring at them.

The victims were taken from Torrent, in the middle of the night without any witnesses to the abductions. Half were strangled, killed quickly, whilst the other was stabbed multiple times in the torso. The killer was a man, strong and fit enough to overpower two people at the same time. The only thing that hadn’t clicked was how the killer was doing it, how they were getting these people - these reasonable, safe people - to go with them. There was no visible marks on the bodies to show restraint, not even any defensive marks - but there was never going to be. Not when they were drugged beforehand.

“It’s the drinks,” Kent whispered out a second after, and Chandler nodded sharply, eyes narrowing.

Kent moved slowly, climbing from Chandler’s lap, and the DI sat up slowly. That was the killer. He was right in front of them.

Until he wasn’t. The man cursed loudly and the glasses were flung in their direction, one hitting Chandler in the center of his chest and the other bouncing off Kent’s shoulder. Later on, Chandler would worry about the wetness seeping through his clothes and the smell of champagne that would take ages to get out. Later on, he’d even worry about Kent and everything inbetween. Right now, they had a murderer to bring in, and this time, they would be alive.

 

*

 

David Somerset, aged 39. Criminal History: theft, assault, battery - his wife, Allison Somerset now Venson, divorced him three years ago after the last arrest, and took their eight year old son away to live with her lover, Charles Pertree, whom she had met during an illicit encounter at a swinger’s event the year prior. Allison was blond and Charles was brunet. David Somerset was caught in the process of trying to drug a set of undercover agents, and whilst making his escape, he stepped onto a busy road and was knocked down by a white van. He didn’t make the night.

After he’d put the phone down, Chandler had sat up a little straighter at his desk, and reached instinctively for the little pot of tiger balm that was rubbed evenly - three circles clockwise on his temples - on both sides of his head. He closed his eyes and breathed out shakily. Another one had died. It was an accident, he had reasoned, nothing could have been done to prevent Somerset from stepping in front of that van. It happened. It just seemed to be happening a lot to his unit, to him.

“At least the killings are over now.”

Chandler opened his eyes at the voice, surprised. He had thought that everyone had left hours ago to finally get some sleep after the long few weeks, and that he was the only one in the Incident room. Kent stood in the doorway to his room, hands pushed into his pockets and hesitant to enter. He smiled comfortingly.

“The killer didn’t get what he deserved,” Chandler stated.

“But he’s dead. No one else has to die like that again.”

“But the ones that did aren’t going to get their retribution,” Chandler snapped before sucking in a breath through his teeth and sighed heavily, “...I didn’t mean to snap.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself sir,” Kent told him firmly. He took a small step into the room. “You figured out who it was, you stopped him, whether it was the way you wanted it or not, it’s over now. And that’s a good thing sir.”

He sounded so sure of himself, of Chandler, of what had transpired. The look on his face was determined and Chandler was beginning to get the impression that Kent wouldn’t stand for any more of his frustration at not being able to bring in a killer alive, not when their deaths had meant the end, and that it had been him to figure it out.

“Yes, it is isn’t it?” Chandler smiled from one side of his mouth. He adjusted and then readjusted his stapler on his table, and glanced back at Kent, “What are you doing here so late?”

“Cleaning,” Kent blurted out awkwardly.

“Cleaning?” Chandler questioned curiously.

The DC seemed embarrassed when he spoke. “Um, I just...after a case like this finishes, the Incident room is always in a state and I know that you don’t enjoy the mess of it, so I thought I’d try and help. You know, make it easier for you so you don’t have to stay so late all the time.”

“You know I stay late?” Chandler wondered quietly.

Kent nodded, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether it was wise to answer the question. “Yes sir.”

“...I thought I told you to call me Joe,” Chandler reminded him nonchalantly. He watched with curiosity and fascination as the man bounced a little on the balls of his feet, his expression suddenly that much brighter and his grin that much wider.

“Joe,” he echoed back, pleased.

“You did some excellent work today Emerson,” Chandler congratulated him, “You played the part well, and got the information we needed. No one could have done better.”

“Thank you sir - ah, Joe.”

“It seemed like you were having fun tonight...” Chandler stood up slowly and walked around his desk. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, half of his brain was screaming at him that this was a terrible idea for so many different reasons with a least half a dozen that were already circling his mind to try and convince him out of it, but while the rest of him pounding and shook nervously, he wanted to do this. He had to try at least. It would be good for him, really good for him.

“Working with you is always fun,” Kent told him awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

“So that kiss...it was for fun?”

“Wha- no, no, of - it was for work, of course it was for work,” he argued, alarmed by the sudden insinuation.

Chandler perched carefully on the edge of his desk, his legs crossed in front of him and his legs behind him. “So it was just work then? You didn’t like kissing me then?”

“I-I didn’t...” Kent fumbled over the words, lost and worried and scared even of where he was supposed to go.

“You seem unresolved on the matter,” Chandler mused, “Perhaps we should give the test another go?”

“T-test?” Kent repeated confused.

“The kiss. To determine whether you enjoyed it or not,” Chandler supplied.

Kent flushed pink and looked all as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “I...”

“We’ll have to do it right though,” He continued, “The right mood, the right setting - perhaps my apartment at seven next Wednesday, work permitting?”

“W-wait, are you...” Kent stepped into the room, hand raised, and stopped, hand dropping to his waist. “Are you asking me...on a date?”

“Y-yes, it would seem so,” Chandler responded, all his confidence leaving him in one ago, fear and realisation of what he had just done abandoned behind. “And I would very much like to know the answer to my question.”

“Next Thursday,” Kent told him.

“I’m sorry?”

He smiled softly, shyly. “We should meet next Thursday instead. Wednesday, Skip’s having his birthday dinner and if we miss it, Judy would do her nut. She’s almost as scary as Skip when she’s angry.”

Chandler returned the smile. “Thursday...seems like an even better day.”

“G-good, good,” Kent’s smile widened into a grin, that seemed to take over most of his body, happy and eager and yes, Chandler had made the right decision. “So, Thursday and I should ah...” He took a small step back and jerked his thumb behind him, “should get back to...cleaning.”

“Of course,” Chandler conceded.

He turned away only when Kent did, and returned to sit behind his desk. From where the chair was positioned, he had the perfect view of the Incident room - and of Kent moving around it. He watched the way the man walked, the way he moved systematically around the room, and smiled. He then sighed and ducked his head, eyes on the papers and pictures that had once been plastered across the white boards.

Although he had met a number of hurdles tonight head on, there was still one more left: paperwork.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a Whitechapel fic so I'd love to know what you think of it.
> 
> You can leave comments or feelings either here on my [tumblr](http://imthekeptainnow.tumblr.com/)


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